Memoirs of The Space Between Youth & Death

It was bound to happen. I find life has its own way of rearranging what was into what is without too much effort. It has an inertia that time meshes with & we look back, and there it is—something has changed.

Life is propelling my two oldest towards such new & interesting adventures. They have been all over the place in what they’ve wanted. But they ultimately want to be full time preachers, teaching the Bible. After one being accepted even into the construction engineering tech program at the local tech school, she has decided not to go. Instead, they’ve both been hired as photographers.

So they will work the fall season with a local photography company & then, they are going to Africa to be with my brother & sister in law for 4-5 months. They will come back in April or May and work the spring photography season & then, if they’ve like that year of their lives, do it all over again, going again to do what many would consider ‘missionary’ work, tho we don’t call it that.

As for me, I’ve happily gotten a job outside my house for the first time in many years.

I can tell you, that’s a scary thing. Interviewing for a job after years of being at home was nerve wracking. But it went well and I got it. I will be doing home care for seniors. It’s a humble job. The pay isn’t great but I am fine with that for now.

The funny thing is, I like old people. Even when I was a kid, they and the stage at which they are at doesn’t scare me. I think many people are afraid of age, and the looming death that comes to us all. I never really was.

Caring for seniors in this roll, of companion, less medical than a health aid, is actually something I feel comfortable with. The training includes all the tough stuff that comes to mind when caring for older ones, but, it is progressive. As your clients age you gain training & experience with the sensitive parts of the job.

We are an aging population. People of all ages are lonelier than they’ve ever been—ironic since we have communication at our fingertips. But older ones are the loneliest I believe. They are forgotten. To provide help to them seems to be one of the best things I could go into the job market and do.

It’s not much glory. Not much money. Not exciting. It’s just caring for other humans, which has been my full time job for the greater part of my life. It allows me to remain available to my kids before & after school which was also so important to me while they’re young. I’m sure as we all adjust I will gradually increase my availability if I need to. But it really was an answered prayer, to get a job, but still be here for my kids, to be able to pick my hours & clients & feel like it’s a valuable job beyond money. If it’s not for me, that’s fine too. It dips my feet back into the working world. But, answered prayers have a way of settling just right I find.

Life bends under time’s inertia, and I move forward, finding I’m the same but completely changed. As is, everyone else.


what gave winter her wild

& summer her dream?

what has now become these small sunken teeth

gashing where the sinew sits laced against the bones?

I watched you give whispers to the willows,

small blooms to the thyme that creeps the dry caked earth,

innocent white buds of the yarrow quivering along this parched path.

I watched as you gave wisps to the clouds & smeared the sunset serenely, with each shade of passion & blush

I watched from here, where everything is nothing. Where whisper & bud is a mere fantasy. Where the land stinks with refuse & the valley never floods with anything but thirst.

I saw the tides that came—people blackened with exhaustion & worry & grief. People. With their tongues dried out & dragging. I saw.

How they gripped onto me, swaying, weighing me down to sit with them, to weep with them. To find some solace in these touchings of a human to a human, a soul to a soul—to feel the vast vagueness of our own selves & of those who die off like flies along this way. Across the desert. Over the salted plains of waters undrinkable. Off to the chainlink homes of hopes unfounded.

I saw. I watched. I cried. I fell.

My knees bled, slow & stinging. The ache came & stayed a while, sipping the tea from my bones & rocking, back & forth.

I could quiet it all with one sweet prayer, splayed wide to my God. I could quiet my insides. He quieted my insides—this inner seething & sadness spilt out upon the ground like a blood sacrifice.

I waited. Oh how I have waited.


No idea what they’re saying but I heard this on a GoPro video on Instagram and immediately fell in love with it.

Back in the old days I always frequented the ‘World’ section in the music store. I loved hearing music from around the world. Now with iTunes it’s a far easier and cheaper exploration. I only owned a few foreign language cds as a teen. A couple in tribal South American languages, because we had a couple bands locally here, Sisa Picari & Alpa Kalpa, both were so good live. They had traditional Andes instruments and gruff voices similar to how the lead from The Gypsy Kings. I had one cd of Swahili music, like a mix of most popular stuff from various Swahili speaking countries at the time.

I’m sure there were more but those were my favourites. I love where I live because you do hear Arab & Hindi/Punjab music blaring from homes and cars often enough—for just a brief moment you could imagine you are far away from the place of ‘too familiar.’

So this Musical Interlude takes you far far away. I may share a couple more of my International favourites these days.

🌍🌎🌏 love the whole of it. What a wonderful gift we have in cultures and experiencing new things.

The Open Wound

The beauty of rainfall to ease the open wound, to touch back the pain, to where it can be lost and home again.

The beauty of light as it cracks the cloud, firm and bold despite the harsh and loud.

What could be fear is ash and dust; what could be lost is moth and rust.

To fold back page upon page, to remember age upon age.

I could gaze but why the pain—the beauty of this moment, of this rain.

Sunset Highway Sweater

So, you can tell from the pilling this is getting lots of wear already, so it may be time to cast on a new summer sweater. But I love it.

I improvised 3/4 length sleeves, adding a strip of grey/green/grey to the sleeve ribbing. These small alterations to the pattern as it was written is a first for me. I’ve never altered a pattern, other than length, before.

I definitely will be more careful about the kind of yarn I use next time. This is pilling far too quickly. Next time I’ll pick a sturdier fingering weight yarn. It is so soft but there is a price for that.

Campaigns of Terror

morning, your slight turn of

fingers to fists, anger always biting on your lips

this pain, eases up from the heart, levered on faith & freedom

peace always came with a price, but not the one the world propagates

true peace lies pooled in the passive, in the strongest of the softnesses

agony lies in the sound of broken doors & guns drawn & a child left bruised upon the floor

* * *

title me as your terrorist? what Terror is this?

to close my door & pray?

to speak kind words of the unkind?

to sing to a patient God who watches, even now in his quietude?

I can feel the lies upon your breath before you speak them. They are crawling out your throat & dripping down your chin in some black-thorned ivy of misery.

Terror is the raid, that came crashing in, guns drawn, as we were thrown against the wall.

Terror is the threat of my children dragged from their beds in the warmth of night.

Terror is an accusation of hate when all that exists is love.

Terror is the accuser.

* * *

Can I weep, like some warm spring wind charged with rain & thunder?

Can I hold my breath just a little while longer?

Can I rip from my chest all truth & love & hope?

Can I close a mouth murmuring pain in a world filled with those who grope—anguish topped high on their battered sadnesses?

Terror? Here, in my heart, in my mouth, in my faith?

Show me. Show me my crusade. Show me my violence. Show me my fist raised, or even my voice. Show me my anger. Flash it back equally upon me.

But no. All that is there, is my soft voice. All that is there is my open hand. All that is there is my hope. All that is there is a soft song. All that is there is warmth.

I gave you that look, the one the moment before the strike, the one that asks in silence for you to put down your anger.

But I felt the blow before it fell, that fractional moment being the real pain.

* * *

So the crush is swallowed & burnt & see, the smoke rising to the heavens, sweet & silent. The blue skies darkened only ever so slightly, the birds picking over what remains. I sit, very very small & still there, in the grass, a scatter of wildflowers swaying to the whisper of my praying—

How beautiful, this world. I can see the restoration just there, over the hill. I can feel the breeze & there is a smell, like after spring’s first rain, welcome & startling. Familiar & forgotten.

And you, you are truly forgotten.